Leslie

Yes, I'm wearing multiple jackets in the middle of July, but how can I complain when I'm digging into a smörgås or two? My name is Leslie and I'm not Swedish myself; rather, my mother is to thank for this condition of being not Swedish but not fully American either. Like so many of my "second generation" brothers and sisters I'm always searching for those elusive roots! My forthcoming novel, The Bear Wife, is inspired by that search, as is my writing for Swedish Freak. Trevligt att träffas!

In 1963 my mother left her home in Sweden for the first time and traveled to the US aboard the Kungsholm, one of the elegant passenger ships of the Swedish American Line (SAL). Now, fifty years later, the American Swedish Historical Museum in Philadelphia has mounted an exhibit about the

I’ve always loved rocks – even before I could say the word properly. When I was just over a year old, my Morfar visited from Sweden. There’s a picture of us – a man in a dark overcoat and a poof of white hair, and me, a rosy-cheeked toddler in

I grew up the daughter of a Swedish immigrant to the US and for us, Christmas – jul – was the most important celebration of the year. In the days before email and Facebook and Google hangouts, when Sweden was so very far away that my mom called home only